Fly on the wall
by UnknownPen
Summary: He was a father, a mentor, a friend, a helper but he was just grateful to be a witness. Alfred's POV. Please read and review!
1. Mockingbird

_**AN: I haven't posted in so long, I'm jonesing. So even though I prefer to post my fics when they're complete, I'll make an exception for this one because I've been working on it forever and I still haven't got anywhere. These are a collection of snapshots from Alfred's perspective, regarding his role his role in Bruce's life. I intended 9 installments which I still hope to write but for now, enjoy these. **_

_**Btw, I own nothing (as if you didn't know)**_

**Fly on the wall**

_He was a father, a mentor, a friend, a helper but he was just grateful to be a witness._

Chapter 1: Mocking Bird

"So, ah, Alfred, apart from three years at Lord Cecil's, you don't seem to have much experience."

I squirmed, carefully balancing the cup of coffee on my lap. What could I say? I had only joined Lord Cecil's service so I could earn enough money to travel to America. It had been my dream to perform on Broadway. The West End had become too crowded lately. At the time I hadn't realized it takes more than an English accent to make it as a theatre actor in New York and my money had soon run out. The three years at Lord Cecil's had been the longest of my life. The man was a miserly, demanding old codger. And yet here I was in the same situation, not six months after securing my independence.

Though Thomas Wayne and Cecil Bourne could hardly be called the same sort. For one thing, Mr. Wayne had elected to have this interview in the living room instead of his office or study. And he had offered me a cup of coffee, which though stronger than I was used to, was much appreciated. In fact, he had received me more as a guest than a potential employee. This was not what I had been expecting from the wealthy industrialist.

I cleared my throat, trying to come up with an answer that would not make me appear desperate.

At that very moment, Fortune intervened. A baby's wail pierced the air. Mrs. Wayne, who had been seated beside her husband, stood up and excused herself.

"How old is the lad?" I asked, seizing the opportunity to draw attention away from myself for a time.

Mr. Wayne's countenance positively shone with pride. His thick brown mustache lifted in a smile.

"Almost six months," he replied with a sparkle in his eye. Mr. and Mrs. Wayne's lack of offspring had been gossip fodder for years in Gotham. Apparently, though it was never confirmed, Mrs. Wayne had suffered more than one miscarriage. Others speculated that the fault lay with her husband. Opportunists were quick to try and cash in on the lack of an heir. Finally, at age 35, Martha Wayne had given birth to the couple's first child. The naysayers were silenced, albeit temporarily, and the birth of the boy had elicited as much excitement as that of a prince. Which makes sense as the Waynes were as close to American royalty as anyone.

"What's his name?" I prodded.

"Bruce William Wayne," he answered.

"That's a fine name," I confirmed.

"Bruce was my wife's father's name," he informed me. "William was mine."

"Ah," I nodded. I took a sip of my coffee. It was lukewarm and not so pleasant.

"Thomas," his wife's voice floated in. There was some strain in her voice, though her appearance was immaculate. Her reddish-brown hair was perfectly coiffed and her clothes had not a single wrinkle in them. Her face did not betray her age and I guessed that she had not changed much since her early twenties. She was cradling her son, who was still crying, bouncing him up and down and making soothing noises but to no avail.

Mr. Wayne turned his full attention to his wife. Excusing himself quickly, he loped to the doorway where his wife was standing.

I did not mean to eavesdrop but to be heard above the wailing infant, they had been forced to speak in more than a whisper. She had fed him, she said, and he was dry, but she couldn't get him to stop crying. Thomas took the boy and held him close, rubbing his back, but still the crying would not abate. Mrs. Wayne wrapped her arms around herself, watching them worriedly. Was he sick? she asked him. Maybe they needed to call the doctor.

I don't know why I did what I did next, but I found myself approaching the harried-looking young couple. Mrs. Wayne had taken the boy back and I went to her.

"May I?" I said, holding out my arms.

Mrs. Wayne glanced at her husband, who seemed rather surprised but nodded tightly. She handed me the infant hesitantly. I made my own movements deliberately slow, as one might move to avoid spooking a deer. She finally placed the baby boy in my arms. I was almost surprised that such tiny lungs were responsible for such a terrifying sound. I held him close to my chest, and began to sing.

His parents were watching me closely, ready to snatch the boy away if I even flinched the wrong way. It was understandable, though. I was a stranger to them and he was their first child, one they had waited for for so long. I continued to sing and gradually the baby's cries began to die down.

I stole a glance at the Waynes. Their eyebrows had shot up to their hairlines. It was so comical I had to turn back to the boy to hide my smile. A few moments later, I handed the calmed infant back to his disbelieving mother, who looked liable to drop him in her shock. Luckily she didn't.

The couple still hadn't blinked, their nonplussed gazes fixed on me.

I shrugged. "My mother used to sing that song to my younger brother," I said by way of explanation. "I thought it might work."

They traded a look then without warning, Mr. Wayne let out a bark of laughter. I was so startled I nearly jumped. He clapped me on the back.

"Well, I guess that settles it, Alfred," he grinned cheerfully, offering me his hand. "You're hired."


	2. Us against the world

Chapter 2: Us against the world

A snore caught in my throat and jolted me awake. I blinked rapidly and rubbed my eyes. Then I remembered where I was. I glanced over at the bed. His face was as pale as the moon that illuminated it. His eyebrows were drawn together, and he'd wrapped his arms around his knees. My heart clenched. He looked…scared. Lonely. But he was asleep, and I was thankful for that small mercy.

I pushed myself off the armchair and made my way across the room as quietly as I could. Bruce has never been what you might call a "heavy sleeper", but lately he'd been having trouble. Who can blame him, poor boy? My mind's eye flitted back to that terrible night, when I brought him home from the police station. He had been unresisting as I undressed him; his shoes, his trousers, his jacket, all stained in dark red. The only movement as I cleaned the blood from beneath his fingernails had been of silent tears rolling down his face, punctuated by quick sniffs.

He hadn't slept that night. Not a wink. His pain poured from his haunted blue eyes. At times, he would burst into sobs, loud and violent like he was reliving the very moment all over again. I would pull him onto my lap and try to offer him solace. And just as I was wracking my brain, trying to come up with something that would make the situation even remotely bearable (and failing badly), he would go quiet. He had stared, quiescent, out of the window until night became day, and I'd stayed up with him. Exhaustion took him later that afternoon, but in the following days I made it my practice to sit with him until he fell asleep.

I cast a final glance at the frail figure and shut the door softly. The grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs read two thirty-seven a.m. I would have to be awake in three hours but I couldn't resist the urge to make myself a cup of tea. It was my coping mechanism, I suppose, and a poor one at that, but there's not much you can do when you're feeling completely helpless.

I was younger than Master Bruce is when I learned the Lord's Prayer. Yet I only dusted it off a few days ago. "Your will be done..." The words cracked like kindling upon my tongue. This couldn't be the will of God, surely. Not the God my parents had confessed with such conviction. What purpose could possibly be served by letting a little boy lose the two most important people in his life before his very eyes, I wondered.

"Where were you?" I asked, about the umpteenth time. This time, like all the times before, there was no answer. I sighed as poured my tea into a cup and left the kitchen. I was headed to my quarters but something stopped me as I walked past the living room. The door was ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside. The first thing that always drew my eye in this room was the family portrait overhanging the mantle. It was a magnificent work of art in my opinion because it had not only captured the likenesses of the Waynes, but the intangibles that really made them who they are – were, like the pride in Thomas Wayne's smile, the depth of wisdom in his wife's eyes, the sense of security of little Bruce, flanked by his parents. This time seeing their hands placed on his shoulders only made me think about the weight their child now bore.

The unfairness of it all tended to irk me most – the senselessness. They were good people. They didn't deserve to die like that. Police Commissioner Gatoni had assured us, and then the citizens of Gotham the next day in a press conference, that the Gotham Police would "devote all available resources" to finding the murderer. I have never been a violent man, but honestly, if I could I don't think I would hesitate to put a bullet in the punk that had caused all this misery.

The clock chimed three. I started and a little of my beverage sploshed over the side of the cup. I really needed to get to bed. Tomorrow Bruce and I would attend the reading of the will. It was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak – the final confirmation that they were truly gone. But at least it would begin to restore some certainty into Bruce's life. I wondered what would happen to him. Maybe he'd go live with his godparents, Ainsley and Nina Carmichael, who had flown in from Vermont for the funeral two days ago. Or his mother's second cousin, Gertie Davis, who was upstairs in one of the guest rooms. Or even Lucius Fox, Thomas Wayne's colleague and confidant.

What would I do then? If he left, where would I go? I didn't know if I could simply detach myself from this place. Bruce was helping me cope as much as I was helping him.

My gaze grew watery as I contemplated the future. But then I focused on the faces of my former employers and I could almost hear them speak. In this whole unreal situation, there was only one thing I was sure of, and I promised them.

_Whatever happens tomorrow, I will always be there for him._


	3. For One Night

Chapter 3: For One Night

Bruce heaved himself up the side of the pool. I pretended not to notice the quake in his arms as he did. He reached out and took the towel I was holding with pruned fingers.

"Isn't there a dance at your school tonight?"

He froze, then pressed the towel to his face. "Yes," he confirmed, voice muffled by the fluffy cotton.

"Well, shouldn't you be getting ready?" I pressed.

He said nothing for a moment as he dried his arms and torso. "I'm not going," he said in a low voice. He wrapped the towel round his waist. 'I have fencing practice."

"Fencing?" I mentally thumbed through his schedule. "You don't have fencing on Fridays."

"I asked Etienne if we could have an extra session this week," he replied, not quite catching my eye.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Master Bruce, I know exactly what you're doing and it's not going to work."

"What?" he huffed defensively, eyes flashing. "Yeah, so maybe I don't want to go to the stupid dance. It's no big deal."

I sighed. "These are your peers, Master Bruce. I know you enjoy your solitude, but it's not healthy for a fourteen year old boy to have no friends his own age. Just go. You might even have fun."

Bruce scowled, water running from his hair down his chin. He wiped it off with the heel of his palm. "Nobody from that school likes me, Alfred. And I don't really like them so why should I pretend that I do?"

He slid his feet into a pair of sandals and began to walk away.

I followed him through the gymnasium and into the foyer. He hated seeming vulnerable but I knew him too well. He was in the untenable position of fearing intimacy whilst at the same time, suffering from the adolescent, no, human, yearning for acceptance and belonging. "No man is an island, sir," I told him. "In seven years when you take over your father's company, you'll have to talk to and work with different people from different backgrounds – bankers, lawyers, politicians, board members – and you may not exactly be fond of all of them. But there's no escaping it so it wouldn't hurt you to learn some social skills."

Bruce shot me a scalding glare. He'd started doing that a lot lately but this one was particularly nasty. It almost gave me pause but I pressed on.

"Besides, if you don't go, Miss Clarissa will be awfully disappointed."

The boy's foot froze poised over the next stair. He dropped it and whirled around.

"Clarissa? As in Clarissa _Fox?_"

I nodded, stifling a laugh at his bewildered expression.

"You invited Clarissa Fox to be my date for the dance?" he asked slowly.

"Actually," I clarified, "you invited her. I was merely the messenger for my diffident but eager young charge."

Bruce ran his hands down his face. "Alfred," he groaned theatrically. "Why did you _do _that?"

"I thought you liked Clarissa," I told him.

A flush crept up his neck. "Sure, I do," he replied, a little flustered. "I mean, she's cool and all but she doesn't even go to my school."

"Yes, but you've known her longer and better than any of your classmates," I argued.

"But a girl like that only goes out with jocks and student body presidents, not friendless losers," he continued. There was slight panic in his voice. "Plus, she's a whole year older than me. Why would she agree to be my date?"

"Maybe she likes you," I offered. "Some girls prefer the, er…" introverted, moody, angst-ridden "… _pensive _type."

He stared at me like I'd grown two heads. I could see the wheels turning in his young mind as he considered the situation. I watched the inner conflict playing out in his blue eyes, so like his father's.

I turned on my heel, knowing now was the time to seal the deal, so to speak. "But if you're sure you won't go," I told him dolefully over my shoulder, "I suppose I shall have to ring her and tell her it's cancelled."

I descended three steps before he called me.

I allowed myself a quick grin, then forced a dignified, almost somber expression onto my face, having to concentrate more than usual to keep the corners of my mouth down.

"I'll go," he mumbled darkly. I knew he was on to me and that he'd let me have this round. He really was a very astute boy.

I nodded. "Very good sir. Your clothes are on your bed. I shall phone Etienne and reschedule."

I watched him ascend the rest of the staircase, resisting the urge to break into a jig. He shut his door and I finally let my smile free, savoring my little victory. It had been a risk, meddling in my young master's life like that. But it was worth it. Aside from the fact that I rather enjoyed the subterfuge, I was grateful that at least for a night, he could pretend that he was just an ordinary teenage boy with ordinary adolescent issues.

We both could.


	4. Bulletproof

Chapter 4: Bulletproof

I extracted the bullet and dropped it into the metal pan by my side with a loud clang that reverberated around the entire cavern then I began to clean the wound in readiness for suturing. As I flexed my stiffening fingers, I marveled at how differently my life had turned out. Nobody could have told me when I joined the Wayne's household that I would have to learn how to perform minor surgeries. I knew how to operate machinery NASA had never even heard about. I couldn't have imagined that I would be making excuses for my master's absences at board meetings, not because he was inebriated somewhere with some tart, but because he was trying to stop a four-hundred pound talking gorilla from launching nuclear warheads.

At times I found it absolutely surreal that this was my life. Me – a failed actor from Surrey – doing a job that better suited a retired MI6 agent. Maybe I was not so failed an actor, because every day of my life I played a role no-one would have suspected this sixty-something, balding Englishman of playing. There were times I became absolutely giddy with the knowledge I possessed. That my ward, a person I had raised from boyhood, was now this near-mythical figure. It made my head spin.

But then there were days like this, when the comedy of my life threatened to turn into a tragedy. And suddenly it was oh so real. I picked up the needle but as Bruce sat stoically waiting for me to begin, my eyes were drawn to the galaxy of scars on his back. I could remember a time when that back had scarcely a blemish. Before Bruce ever donned the costume, when life seemed safe and certain. Those scars were a contradiction: on one hand they were trophies, representing his triumphs despite unspeakable odds. On the other, they were a violent reminder that Batman was only still a man, with all the frailties that implied.

There was something about that black Kevlar suit that changed not only Bruce's appearance, but his very personality. It was like every time he pulled the cowl over his face, he transformed into something terrifying and fascinating in equal measure. He became this inhuman thing, this spectre that could face anyone and anything if it meant defending an innocent. I was well aware that underneath it all, the Batman was Bruce's brilliance, his athleticism, his amazing gadgets and his indefatigable heart for justice. That didn't stop me from standing in dumb awe of him. And I'd changed his diapers!

He seemed untouchable but the blood that stained my latex gloves spoke otherwise. What if the bullet had been just inches to the right? I had the morbid vision of Bruce lying paralyzed in some dank alley somewhere, drowning in a pool of his own blood, cold and alone… It wasn't inconceivable that a simple bullet would be the one to end Batman. His parents had each been killed by a single shot. It hit me with the force of a tidal wave just how close I'd come to losing the only family I had left…

"Alfred?" Bruce turned his head gingerly. He tightened his jaw at the surge of pain caused by that simple action.

I had been standing motionless for I don't know how long, my focus occupied with morose thoughts of what might have been. I still clutched the suturing needle in quaking hands.

I meant to speak, to reassure him I was all right but speech failed me. Bruce, perspicacious as ever, placed a hand on my own quivering ones.

"It's all right," he told me, meeting my troubled gaze. He stood up. "Just call Leslie. She'll do the rest."

I nodded and managed to squeeze out, "Right away, sir."

With a nod, he stood and headed up the staircase into the main house. I swallowed, cursing myself for my cowardice and snapped off my gloves, dropping them onto the metal tray.

I was about to leave when something grabbed my attention. Batman's cowl lay discarded on the keyboard of the computer console. I stared at it. I've always believed in Bruce's mission. I believe that the Dark Knight stands as a symbol of hope for the downtrodden of Gotham and beyond. I know that as this angel from the shadows, he has saved more lives than will ever give him credit for it. I stand by him a hundred per cent. I would readily defend his cause in any court in the land.

However there was a nagging little voice in the back of mind that challenged: _Why does it have to be him? Why not leave that madness to the invulnerable, like Superman? Does he really have to risk his life to make a change? _Mostly I was able to keep that voice in check, except for days like today when it overwhelmed rational thought. It was the voice of my worst fear, that one day this job would claim Bruce as a victim.

I picked up the mask and glared into its blank unseeing eyes. It matched my gaze steadily and defiantly until I tossed it down in disgust. I loved Bruce.

But sometimes, I really hated the Batman.

**A/N: This was meant to be chapter four with Bruce as a young adult but I was totally blocked so I skipped it and went straight to this. Also I wrote this before watching an episode of B:TAS where it turns out Alfred **_**was**_** actually a retired government agent. But since I'd started with the idea of an actor, I decided to continue with it. Hope you liked it. As always, R&R.**


	5. Shooting stars

Chapter 5: Shooting Stars

"Welcome back, Master Bruce." I stepped aside so he could enter the house. "How was Kasnia?"  
"Eventful," he replied, bringing up his small black suitcase beside him and retracting its handle.

"Indeed," I replied. I knew the details well enough .They had been all over the news the past few days. The Justice League had prevented a Kasnian coup led by Princess Audrey's husband, the dastardly Vandal Savage. Unfortunately in the process, the palace had been lost. The silver lining was that for the first time in decades, there had been a pause in the in-fighting that cost so many lives in the tiny kingdom. With the nation united in shock and grief, and the king incapacitated, the time was ripe for the people of Kasnia to make a new start, led by their Queen Audrey. I was rather impressed with the young monarch. She had always appeared to be a spoilt, unrestrained child, a tabloid darling with the depth of a kitchen sink. Yet in the face of this crisis, she had shown herself to be a courageous and worthy leader. The sun was beginning to rise on Kasnia, thanks, in no small part, to the Justice League.

"And Paris?" I queried, as he swiped off his sunglasses and slid off his jacket, which I took. I tried to fight the smirk that was advancing on my features.

"Paris was good," he answered shortly.

I filled a tumbler with ice and poured him a glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed that morning. "Just good?" I prompted, handing him the beverage.

His eyebrow lifted. He had caught something in my tone. I stood, schooling my expression into one of innocence. He stared at me for a moment before a light went on in his eyes. He had deduced the subject of my unvoiced questions: the statuesque raven-haired beauty that he had been photographed waltzing with in Paris.

I had come across the picture in the society pages of the Gothamite magazine. Any woman on the arm of Gotham's most eligible bachelor would inspire curiosity, but when that woman happened to be Wonder Woman, it caused quite a stir. And I had to admit, they did make a handsome couple. I knew that Bruce respected the Amazon Princess as a teammate, but seeing them together had lit a little flame of hope in me. Perhaps she would be the one to win Bruce's heart and finally bring him peace.

When Bruce was younger, I had seriously believed he would marry Andrea Beaumont. She was a pretty redhead and very like Bruce in many ways – she was intelligent, wealthy and had lost a parent at a young age. Unfortunately, perhaps they were _ too _similar because ironically, it was the revelation that she herself was a masked vigilante that had ended their relationship.

Then there was Selina Kyle. She would dart in and out of Bruce's life like a snake's tongue. They had recognized something in each other one night on the rooftops of Gotham that drew them together. Like him, she was a creature of the night, a creature of solitude. They had a connection, to be sure, but she was too unpredictable to be trusted completely. I think that's why he always kept her at arm's length. She was never fully his, nor he, hers.

Talia al-Ghul was an exquisite beauty. Too bad she was as crazy as a loon. Her affair with Bruce was a result of her father's disturbing attempt at eugenics: He wanted a genetically superior child whom he could raise in his own demented image. Usually I trust Bruce's judgment and I respect his choices but that woman made my skin crawl ten different ways and I am not at all sorry that my master is done with her for good.

When he had started up with Lois Lane, I had been relieved. Finally, a woman who wasn't in this godforsaken business. Bruce had enjoyed spending time with her and it was easy to see why: she was feisty, independent, and easily matched Bruce's wit. Unfortunately their relationship had fizzled out almost as quickly as it began. The fact that she was Superman's…_something_ might also have had something to do with it. But in a testament to her virtues, the Daily Planet reporter had kept Bruce's secret, even though it was the scoop of the century. And Bruce still cared about her in his own way.

Which brings us back to Wonder Woman. I was putting the cart before the horse, I admit, by imagining that she might be the one to make Bruce settle down. I barely knew anything about her. And I knew even less about the nature of their relationship. Perhaps it had never occurred to Bruce to see her as more than a fellow member of the League. It was possible that their dance in Paris had been just that. She was a gorgeous woman; maybe Bruce was just indulging his playboy persona by being seen with her.

But as I searched my master's gaze, I saw more than impassive recollection. And when the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile so fleeting I would have missed it had I blinked, I had my answer. Princess Diana of Themyscira had left an impression on Bruce Wayne.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Where's Tim?"

"I believe he's at the cinema," I replied, following his lead and dropping the subject. "He said he'll be back by seven for his patrol."

Bruce nodded and began to walk towards the grandfather clock that disguised the entrance to the Batcave. Typical Bruce. Other people might want to eat or shower or rest after an eight hour flight but not him. First order of business was to make sure his beloved city was still standing. I realized then that Lady Gotham was the only woman in Bruce's life and probably always would be. But then as I ferried his suitcase to his room, the image of Bruce holding Diana stole into my mind.

_Alfred, you're a silly romantic old fool_, I chuckled to myself.

Still, one could only hope.

**A/N: I didn't want the fic to be too depresso so I decided to add a little levity with this one and indulge the BM/WW shippers at the same time! R & R!**


	6. Twilight

Chapter 6: Twilight

I remember that on the day she left, there had been a beautiful sunset. Postcard perfect: Golden orange and soft pink and purple filled the sky and painted the fluffy, scattered clouds. It was a sunset redolent of younger carefree days when all was right with the world, of love and contentment, of comfort and peace. That day, though, there was none of that.

Instead, the final rays of the sinking sun had wrapped around the winged woman like luminescent tentacles, seemingly drawing her into it as it disappeared. And the darkness that had began with that twilight was only now beginning to break.

At first I was angry with the League. They shouldn't have let her go so easily. Could they not see how much she had sacrificed for them? One mistake and that was it? To simply be ostracized, with no consideration being made of the years she had fought side-by-side with them, it was unreasonable.

Nobody, it appeared to me, had made any real effort to convince her to stay. Not her so-called friends, the Flash and the Martian, nor Superman, who should have understood her position, having himself been deemed an object of suspicion and mistrust not so many years ago. Not even the Green Lantern, who had professed to love her. What kind of love would watch her fly away and not utter a word?

But by far the biggest disappointment was Bruce. I don't know if he knows about my exchange with Shayera directly before she quit the League. Her pain was palpable. Shame, regret and fear radiated from her in waves. In my own small way I tried to reassure her, but she drew little comfort from my words. As she stood on the window ledge preparing to launch herself onto the bluff overlooking the sea, I stared forcibly at Bruce, willing him to say something, _anything._ But he had simply turned away.

As the days passed, my ire began to cool. I was finally able to see the situation through the eyes of those left behind by the woman once known as Hawkgirl. The very first time I met the Flash, or Wally West, he had been wearing a grin even though it was the height of the invasion. His sunny disposition was an interesting counterpoint to Bruce's affinity for all things dark. Now, a few weeks after her departure I could tell his optimism was forced. In his rare quiet moments, a melancholy wistfulness would cross his features.

Whereas the Martian coped by retreating inwards, losing himself in meditation for hours at a time, Diana took out her frustrations on the work-out room. Equipment that had been there for years suddenly needed to be replaced every two days. And just yesterday, after a disappointing mission, she had decided that punching bags weren't enough of a challenge and punched a hole right in the wall of the gym. She _was_ kind enough to help me clean up the mess afterwards.

While Mr. Stewart, the Lantern, had always been a reticent fellow as far as I could tell, he certainly had taken it to the extreme these past few days. His entire discourse with me consisted of three words: "Thank you, Alfred." It was what he said to me whenever I served him. Not that he was around very often. The young man had taken to volunteering for any and every mission that he could get. He would come back tired and bruised, but then he'd be first in line the next time an emergency came up. Most likely the physical pain served to distract him from where it really hurt. I don't blame him and I regret being so quick to judge. He loved Shayera more than might be possible for me to comprehend and watching her leave must have been the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

Bruce felt her loss, too. In his own quiet way he did. Initially he'd been angry because she had done what few others had managed to do – she had hurt him. And it wasn't even her he was angry with, it was himself. Wasn't Batman supposedly the World's Greatest Detective? How had a spy managed to operate under his well-trained nose all these years without him sussing her out? In a way, he blamed himself for the invasion. He had let his guard down and allowed himself to trust her, and it almost _had _been the end of the world. This does not bode well for Bruce's faith in others. Being part of the Justice League had helped him become less paranoid, more open. Now, I feared he would never trust anyone fully – including himself – ever again.

And poor Superman, Mr. Kent working so hard to keep his disaffected crew together. He put on a brave face but it was obvious he was worried about the future of the League. The tenuous bonds that held them together were under strain. One link had broken, and it might not be long before the rest followed.

I don't think anyone would have blamed them for quitting. They were back at square one – worse off, in fact, than when they had started. But that's why they're heroes. Despite their personal hurts and the seemingly insurmountable setbacks that bombard them from every angle, they are more devoted than ever to protecting the human race. Duty-driven, honour-bound, these six incredible people go out into the world day after grueling day with an aim of making it better. And slowly, stealthily, the night fades and a new day dawns on the Justice League.

**A/N: Couldn't resist adding some HG/GL-shippiness to this fic. Gotta love 'em ****:)**


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